AUX 3 00000000000
AUX COA 01000000000
A/S ROX-P 00000010000
RDR PROX-1 00001001000
There were nine more pages of dense data. She wasn’t sure what all the readings represented, particularly the AUX fault checks. One was probably the auxiliary power unit, the gas turbine in the rear of the fuselage which provided power when the plane was on the ground, and backup power in the event of electrical failure during flight. But what were the others? Auxiliary line readings? Checks of redundant systems? And what was AUX COA?
She’d have to ask Ron.
She flipped ahead to the DEU listing, which stored faults by each leg of the flight. She scanned them quickly, yawning, and then suddenly she stopped:
DEU FAULT REVIEW
LEG 04 FAULTS 01
R/L SIB PROX SENS MISCOMPARE
8 APR 00:36
FLT 180 FC052606H
ALT 37000
A/S 320
She frowned.
She could hardly believe what she was seeing.
A fault in the proximity sensor.
Exactly what her check of maintenance records told her to look for.
More than two hours into the flight, a proximity sensor error was noted on the inboard electrical bus. The wing had many proximity sensors—little electronic pads which detected the presence of metal nearby. The sensors were needed to confirm that the slats and flaps were in the proper position on the wing, since the pilots couldn’t see them from the cockpit.
According to this fault, a “miscompare” had occurred between sensors on the right and left sides. If the main electrical box in the fuselage had had a problem, faults would have been generated on both wings. But the right wing alone had generated the miscompare. She looked ahead, to see if the fault repeated. She skipped through the listing quickly, shuffling papers. She didn’t see anything at once. But a single fault in the sensor meant it should be checked. Again, she would have to ask Ron…
It was so difficult to try and assemble a picture of the flight from these bits and pieces. She needed the continuous data from the flight recorder. She’d call Rob Wong in the morning, and see how he was coming with that.
Meanwhile…
Casey yawned, settled lower on the pillows, and continued to work.
WEDNESDAY
GLENDALE
6:12 a.m.
The telephone was ringing. She awoke, groggy, and rolled over, hearing the crunch of paper beneath her elbow. She looked down and saw the data sheets scattered all over the bed.
The phone continued to ring. She picked it up.
“Mom.” Solemn, close to tears.
“Hi, Allie.”
“Mom. Dad is making me wear the red dress, and I want to wear the blue one with the flowers.”
She sighed. “What did you wear yesterday?”
“The blue one. But it’s not dirty or anything!”
This was an ongoing battle. Allison liked to wear the clothes she had worn the day before. Some innate, seven-year-old conservatism at work. “Honey, you know I want you to wear clean clothes to school.”
“But it is clean, Mom. And I hate the red dress.”
Last month, the red dress had been her favorite. Allison had fought to wear it every day.
Casey sat up in bed, yawned, stared at the papers, the dense columns of data. She heard her daughter’s complaining voice on the phone and thought, Do I need this? She wondered why Jim didn’t handle it. Everything was so difficult, over the phone. Jim didn’t hold up his end—he wasn’t firm with her— and the kid’s natural tendency to play one parent against the other led to an interminable string of long-distance encounters like this.
Trivial problems, childish power plays.
“Allison,” she said, interrupting her daughter. “If your father says to wear the red dress, you do what he says,”
“But Mom—”
“He’s in charge now.”
“But Mom—”
“That’s it, Allison. No more discussion. The red dress.”
“Oh, Mom…” She started to cry. “I hate you.”
And she hung up.
Casey considered calling her daughter back, decided not to. She yawned, got out of bed, walked into the kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker. Her fax machine was buzzing in the comer of the living room. She went over to look at the paper coming out.
It was a copy of a press release issued by a public relations firm in Washington. Although the firm had a neutral name— the Institute for Aviation Research—she knew it was a PR firm representing the European consortium that made Airbus. The release was formatted to look like a breaking wire-service story, complete with headline at the top. It said:
JAA DELAYS CERTIFICATION OF N-22
WIDEBODY JET CITING CONTINUED
AIRWORTHINESS CONCERNS
She sighed.
It was going to be a hell of a day.
WAR ROOM
7:00 a.m.
Casey climbed the metal stairs to the War Room. When she reached the catwalk John Marder was there, pacing back and forth, waiting for her.
“Casey.”
“Morning, John.”
“You’ve seen this JAA thing?” He held up the fax.
“Yes, I have.”
“It’s nonsense, of course, but Edgarton drilled a hole. He’s very upset. First, two N-22 incidents in two days, and now this. He’s worried we’re going to get creamed in the press. And he has no confidence that Benson’s Media Relations people will handle this right.”
Bill Benson was one of the old Norton hands; he had handled media relations since the days when the company lived on military contracts and didn’t tell the press a damned thing. Testy and blunt, Benson had never adjusted to the post-Watergate world, where journalists were celebrities who brought down governments. He was famous for feuding with reporters.
“This fax may generate press interest, Casey. Especially among reporters who don’t know how screwed up the JAA is. And let’s face it, they won’t want to talk to press flacks. They’ll want an executive in the company. So Hal wants all the inquiries on the JAA routed to you.”
‘To me,” she said. She was thinking, Forget it. She already had a job. “Benson won’t be very happy if you do that—”
“Hal’s talked to him personally. Benson’s on board.”
“Are you sure?”
“I also think,” Marder said, “we ought to prepare a decent press package on the N-22. Something besides the usual PR crap. Hal suggested you compile a comprehensive package to refute the JAA stuff—you know, service hours, safety record, dispatch reliability data, SDRs, all of that.”
“Okay …” That was going to be a lot of work, and—
“I told Hal you were busy, and that this was an added burden,” Marder said. “He’s approved a two-grade bump in your IC.”
Incentive compensation, the company’s bonus package, was a large part of every executive’s income. A two-grade increase would mean a substantial amount of money for her.
“Okay,” she said.
“The point is,” Marder said, “we’ve got a good response to this fax—a substantive response. And Hal wants to make sure we get it out. Can I count on you to help us?”
“Sure,” Casey said.
“Good,” Marder said. And he walked up the stairs, into the room.
Richman was already in the room, looking preppy in a sport coat and tie. Casey slipped into a chair. Marder shifted into high gear, waving the JAA fax in the air, berating the engineers. “You’ve probably already seen that the JAA is playing games with us. Perfectly timed to jeopardize the China sale. But if you read the memo, you know that it’s all about the engine in Miami and nothing about Transpacific. At least not yet…”
Casey tried to pay attention, but she was distracted, calculating what the change in 1C would mean. A two-grade bump was … she did the figures in her head … something like a twenty-percent raise. Jesus, she thought. Twenty percent! She could send Allison to private school. And they could vacation someplace nice, Hawaii or someplace like that. They’d stay in a nice hotel. And next year, move to a bigger house, with a big yard so Allison could run around, and—
Everyone at the table was staring at her.
Marder said, “Casey? The DFDR? When can we expect the data?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I talked to Rob this morning. The calibration’s going slowly. He’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Okay. Structure?”
Doherty began in his unhappy monotone. “John it’s very difficult very difficult indeed. We found a bad locking pin on the number-two inboard slat. It’s a counterfeit part and—”
“We’ll verify it at Flight Test,” Marder said, interrupting him. “Hydraulics?”
“Still testing, but so far they check out. Cables rigged to spec.”
“You’ll finish when?”
“End of first shift today.”
“Electrical?”
Ron said, “We’ve checked the principal wiring pathways. Nothing yet. I think we should schedule a CET on the entire aircraft.”
“I agree. Can we run it overnight to save time?”
Ron shrugged. “Sure. It’s expensive, but—”
“The hell with expense. Anything else?”
“Well, there’s one funny thing, yes,” Ron said. “The DEU faults indicate there may have been a problem with proximity sensors in the wing. If the sensors failed, we might get a slats misread in the cockpit.”